


Amateur Dramatics

by Howlermonkey



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Falling In Love, First Kiss, Florist Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Multi, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Singing, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 02:17:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlermonkey/pseuds/Howlermonkey
Summary: What if Aziraphale was asked to sing in a play by an enthusiastic if hapless local amateur dramatics society? He finds it hard to resist, but would be mortified if Crowley ever found out. He keeps it a secret from the demon, but when Crowley finds out from a slip of the tongue of Sergeant Shadwell, he can't keep away from the theatre.Inspired by Michael Sheens portrayal of Aziraphale - it's a well known fact all Welsh people can sing the house down, right?Fluffy as can be, slightly AU as don't explicitly say where in storyline this is set, I'd like to say after the apocalypse that wasn't, but the fan in me feels they should have done this ages ago then!





	Amateur Dramatics

**Author's Note:**

> A one off ficlet inspired by an errant train thought. Aziraphale had agreed to play a small part in an amateur dramatic production nearby and at all costs must stop Crowley knowing about it. 
> 
> Crowley makes it his business to know what the angel is up to.
> 
> For more flower language, see my latest fic;  
https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678492

Aziraphale was a soft touch, it was well known. He had too much of a worldy streak to really be taken advantage of, but one particular instance had begun with a local theatre troupes scouting him for an angelic role in their upcoming amateur dramatic performance. They had burst into his shop having glimpsed his halo of white blonde curls through the window, and the director, Ned, had practically gotten down on his hands and knees to get him to help them with the part. The previous incumbent had stormed out of rehearsals that day, role had completely gone to his head, Ned explained hurriedly. All the proceeds were going to a children's charity too, he needled. Aziraphale had eventually said yes, with some enthusiasm disguised under the overwhelming reluctance. His decision had, quite unexpectedly, led to one of the most beautiful moments of Crowley's life.

A week before he had been enduring his biennial meeting with witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell. The greasy spoon cafe he had chosen was full of the malodorous scents of burned eggs, stale coffee and now the witchfinder himself, sitting opposite Crowley and pontificating on some new paranoia. This time it was amateur dramatics. Shadwell was not the first to loath the theatre. Throughout history, some people had seen it as a den of iniquity, a place where law and order ended and everyone who purchased a ticket and spent a pleasant few hours in innocent entertainment were doomed, ultimately, to burn in hell. 

"...and now they're putting on a play, heathens!" spat Shadwell.

Crowley wasn't listening, but had gotten used to lazily replying to Shadwell with enough of a response to keep the conversation going yet requiring minimal effort from himself.

"Oh, really?"

Shadwell bristled with divine righteousness, "Yes! A Pagan, pestilential thing it is, one step from witchery Mr Crowley, and they've roped in that southern pansy too..."

He stopped quickly, horribly aware he'd just not only put his foot in it, but his calf, knee and most of his thigh too. Mr Crowley thought he was his only benefactor, and if he learned he had another, he might withdraw all financial support.

Crowley looked sharply into his stuttering face from behind his sunglasses.

"Southern pansy?"

Shadwell thought hard, and tried to think quickly,  
"Yes well, er, in the course of my witchfinding I've had some er, cause, to enter a certain bookshop in Soho, quite against my will Mr Crowley" he added hurriedly.

"Go on" said Crowley, with some menace. 

Shadwell began to relax, pleased at his own ingeniousnousness..ness. 

"One particular bookshop Mr Crowley," he leaned in conspiratorially, "is run by a man who collects the most lascivious and shocking books, books of witchcraft and fortune telling!" he hissed the words like they we're curses. When Crowley didnt reply other than to stare off into space, he realised the meeting was over. He got up from the table to leave. 

Crowley sat back in his chair, momentarily distracted by the idea that Aziraphale had been convinced to perform in a bit of amateur dramatics. A smile began to twist his lips, or perhaps it was a smirk.

"Where is this ... amateur production?"

Shadwell turned and answered, "At Bankside playhouse Mr Crowley"

Crowley looked down to make a note of it as the witchfinder opened the door to leave. Just before it closed, he stuck his head in and said,

"First performance is at 7:30, Friday" 

Crowley grunted in response. 

\---------  
On Friday, Aziraphale was beside himself with nerves. He could no longer remember why he had agreed to this. He vaguely recalled Ned's beseeching expression, his shaking hands as he begged Aziraphale to take the part. Thankfully a very small one, but with a big song in the last Act. Mercifully his role spared him most of the flamboyant costumes the rest wore, though in supreme irony he was required to wear a pair of angel wings, enthusiastically created by the prop maker from cardboard and cottonwool.

The idea of standing on a stage in front of an audience suddenly made his mouth dry while simultaneously making him feel like he was drowning in deep water. The rehearsals so far had been rather abysmal, but the troupe were a nice lot who had a bit of a name for themselves in the area, and he hoped that it would all be alright on the night. He almost believed it would be. 

At least Crowley didnt know, and Aziraphale doubted his tastes ran to very amateur dramatics in a tiny theatre in the less salubrious part of town. He had visited only last night, in a better mood than he often was when prowling through the door. He had brought a fine bottle of wine and, inexplicably, a rather large posy of white carnations . 

"What are those for my dear?" he had asked while uncorking the profferred bottle. 

"No real reason" Crowley had answered airily while settling in his usual place on the couch. "Thought you'd like them".

Aziraphale handed him a goblet of wine and said, "Oh I do! They're beautiful and smell just heavenly! It was just unexpected".

Crowley ran a hand through his red locks and looked up at Aziraphale, holding the flowers he'd cut himself that morning "Well, there's not much beautiful or fragrant in this city, so I thought I'd honour and appreciate it in my way"

It was only when Aziraphale had bustled away to fetch a vase and water that it occurred to him, was Crowley still talking about the flowers?

\--------

Crowley took his seat in the uppermost row of the theatre. He had bought out the back two rows, 'up in the God's it was called by some, or 'nosebleed alley' by the more rustic, so he could watch the show but go unnoticed by audience and players alike. He neednt have bothered, as the theatre was only just half full at nearly 7:30.

He was completely swathed in anonymous darkness up there, the stage a puddle of warm light. As the candles around the theatre were snuffed out, he crossed his arms and waited.

...

Oh dear. 

For someone used to the very best that theatre had to offer, he had come with very low expectations. He was picking these up off the rather sticky floor at present. To be fair he mused, a few were only bad. The rest were terrible. He felt a little pained for Aziraphale's sake, unconsciously sinking into his seat with second hand embrassment. 

It was some kind of a morality play, he could glean that much from the bellowed lines and incongruous dancing being displayed on stage. There were some songs, or at least he thought the actors were singing. Perhaps Shadwell might actually have approved of this one, he thought. 

It was a short play with no intermission, but it felt an age until a spotlight lit the centre of the stage and an extremely pale Aziraphale stepped into it from the wings. 

Crowley thought his heart would burst at the sight of him. His knuckles were white as they gripped the back of the seat in front of him, his eyes clenched painfully shut as he heard the small band start to play, and Aziraphale began to sing.

It was a simple folk air, the kind that could be heard sang in rough voices in any pub on a Friday night, but with Aziraphale' s deep, resonant voice it was transformed into something heart wrenchingly lovely. His rich tones were clear as a bell in the small theatre, his honesty and earnestness pouring out as the melody floated up into the gods, into the darkness of the back two rows, and right into Crowley's heart. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, but a tear slid down his cheek and under his chin as he let the sound wash over him. 

Aziraphale's voice was water after thirst, food after starvation, a garden after a graveyard, heaven after hell. It was rainfall and sunrises, old and young, life and love and all in a sound. Was this another gift of being an angel, wondered Crowley? He shrugged away the thought: where ever it came from, it was all Aziraphale's.

He was aware of a thundering noise around him, and feeling like he was awakening from a deep sleep, he opened his eyes. The audience were on their feet, giving his angel as resounding an applause as half a theatre can muster. He gave himself just time enough to glance at Aziraphales happy face, his beaming smile, and slipped out unseen into the night.

Tomorrow, he thought, I'll keep my eyes open, and he did. He kept them open for the rest of the shows run, sitting hidden at the back for every performance.

\-------

Aziraphale had had a wonderful week. After a shaky start, the show had been a great success, the theatre filling more and more each night until the final performance saw them bursting the rafters. The only drawback had been missing Crowley all week, the play taking the place of their usual evening visits. If Aziraphale was honest with himself he'd half expected Crowley to come to the show after word had gotten out that it was worth seeing. Had he known it was only he who had been deemed worth seeing, he would have been mortified, but word had spread of the man with the voice of an angel, and the people of the city always enjoyed a good show. 

It was the evening after the last performance, and Aziraphale was relaxing in his rooms at the back of the bookshop, pleased to be back to normality, when a familiar knock rapped at the door. "Come in Crowley" he trilled with a grin. 

The door opened, and though Crowley it was, he could barely be seen over the most enormous collection of flowers Aziraphale had seen. They cascaded over his hands, filling the room with their sweet scent. There were soft ivory petalled lilies, white camellias, delicate acacia blossoms, and nestled throughout, deep red carnations exuding their clean scent through the bookshop. 

"Oh my goodness!" Aziraphale jumped out of his chair and ran to help Crowley cross the threshold, difficult with a fields worth of flowers in his arms.

"S' alright angel I've got them" said Crowley's voice from somewhere amongst the blooms. Aziraphale instead ran to get another vase, placing it by the flowers Crowley had given him last week, still miraculously fresh and alive.  
When the huge bouquet was finally standing in pride of place in the vase, Crowley collapsed languidly onto his couch. 

"Carried that miles, didn't want to mess the Bentley" he explained. "Could use a stiff drink"

"Of course my dear", he said, "the least I can do when you've brought a veritable Eden indoors for me!"

He bustled into the back room, returning with a particularly peaty whisky in a crystal glass. Crowley took it with a smile, and asked, "Well then angel, what have you been up to this week?"

Aziraphale positively glowed as he beamed at Crowley, "I'm glad you asked! I've had the most wonderful week on stage Crowley!"

He was off, talking in an increasingly excited babble about the players, the songs, the audience that grew daily until they had standing room only on the last day.The ovation they had received, the excellent reviews in the local paper. Crowley listened as quietly and intently as usual, his chin resting on his hand as he sipped the fiery liqueur and basked in the angels enthusiasm. 

Aziraphale finished his tale with a satisfied sigh and leaned back into his chair, "I had half expected you to come to a performance Crowley" he said slightly reproachfully. 

Crowley shifted in his chair to look at him, "Me? Do I look like the sort of person who goes to AM-DRAM?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and tutted primly. 

"And anyway, angel" said Crowley gesturing airily, "you didn't invite me".

Aziraphale looked slightly guilty as he replied, "Yes. That is true. I suppose I was a little too ... shy to." He looked down at his glass, suddenly abashed, "I would have hated to have to be embarrassed in front of you of all people Crowley".

"I have it on good authority that you have nothing to be embarrassed about angel", he answered, unfolding himself from his lounging position to sit and face Aziraphale. 

"Oh?" said the angel, "Did you happen to read a review? I wouldn't have thought you'd be in the habit of reading the local papers?"

Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale, their knees almost touching across the woven rug.

"I didn't get my information from a review, angel" he teased softly, a smirk beginning to play on his lips.

Aziraphale leaned forwards too, interested despite himself. 

"You know someone who saw the play?" he asked eagerly.

"You could say that" admitted Crowley, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a wad of paper and held it out to Aziraphale, who took it gently, already recognising them.

In his hands were seven tickets, for the seven nights the show ran. They had been stamped at the door, and were slightly dog eared from living, cherished, in Crowley's pocket.

He felt his heart pounding in his ears as he looked up into Crowley's face.

"You... you came to the show? You came to every performance?"

Crowley smiled gently, creases appearing at the corner of his amber eyes.

"Course I did angel"

Aziraphale felt tears begin to prick in his eyes and he looked down at the tickets on his lap.

"You don't mind do you?" asked Crowley, suddenly worried. 

Aziraphale shook his head, loosening a few glistening tears that fell unhindered onto the tickets.

A hand reached out, thin fingered and warm, and grasped his.

"You sing beautifully Aziraphale. It was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard, and I've heard galaxies being created, so that's saying something" Aziraphale laughed gently. He looked around at the flowers, understanding beautifying his angelic face. 

"What did you think of the rest of the show?" he asked with a wily smirk.

Crowley cringed slightly, "Ngk, don't remind me angel. We're talking about you just now" he reached across the small space between them with the hand that wasn't in Aziraphale's, and ran a finger down the angels cheek, following the journey of a tear down soft skin. 

"I felt unmade and made anew when you sang, angel. I felt undone and forgiven. I'd give anything hear you sing again"

Aziraphale turned his face into Crowley's hand now cupping his cheek, before leaning closer and closer into his demons face.

"Then so you shall, my love," he whispered, "but not before..."

Crowley felt those last words against his own lips as Aziraphale's met them in a kiss. He closed his eyes and Fell again, fell into this kiss, as enraptured in his blindness as he had been when he first heard his angel sing and had had to close his eyes. 

He felt strong arms encircle him and draw him in, felt a soft body welcome his lean one and felt completely whole. When they finally broke the kiss, it was only to press lips on the others cheek, jawline, neck; giddy with tender exploration, and love expressed at last. Finally they held on tightly to eachother, Crowley's head against Aziraphales chest, the angels nose burrowed in the demons copper hair, breathing in eachother and the fresh scent of the flowers nearby. 

As Aziraphales heartbeat began to lull Crowley to sleep, he distantly heard a gentle humming melody begin. He smiled helplessly against the angel, realising he was hearing a lullaby, and that it was all for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! The bouquets he gives Aziraphale are based on flower language popular in Victorian times. The first means good luck, the second is a big bouquet of:  
Acacia - concealed love  
White Camellia - you're adorable  
Red carnations- my heart aches for you  
White lily - purity, heavenly. 
> 
> Feel like flower language is a fic in itself for these two!


End file.
